Page 3 of A Dark and Stormy Knight (A Knight’s Tale #3)

Scotland, 1260. Outside Stirling Castle

C old hatred powered through him.

If Wallace of Wolfsbane had aught to say about it, Sir Rupert of Dinsdale was dead, dead, dead.

The thought of the other man’s lifeblood flowing into the dirt as his greedy father, Lord Dinsdale, watched, stripped of his heir, was the only matter at hand.

He released a hiss of breath. This confrontation had taken two years of planning, petitions to the king, witnesses and friends arguing in his favor.

The fact that it was finally here, that family honor would be avenged on this field of grass was a relief, but his mouth tightened as he ran through the litany of Lord Dinsdale’s sins, keeping the fire stoked within him.

The Dinsdales had taken much.

Husband and father.

The Wolfsbane name that had meant so much to their family for generations, stained.

Their honor questioned.

Their lands confiscated.

They were fortunate to possess one last roof over their heads, and now, with Sir Rupert in his sights, before God and King, revenge and reparation would finally be his.

Wallace looked toward King Henry, sitting on a dais beside the young Scottish king, whose attention was caught by the even younger mistress at his side.

He ground his teeth. The royals weren’t paying attention, more interested in the fair, the amusements, and the aristocracy gathered around them. Laughing, eating, talking, going from event to event.

His family, their hardships, were inconsequential to this lot.

As his mount stamped dirt, Wallace gripped the reins tightly in one hand, adjusting the lance in the other. He’d waited this long; he could certainly wait for the king’s permission.

This would be perfectly executed, with no chance for Lord Dinsdale to call foul, or to discredit after the fact.

Besides, it gave Sir Rupert time to sweat.

A slither of dark and unholy amusement snaked through him. Though the other man tried to hide it, Wallace could see fear, or mayhap it was resignation, in the set of the man’s shoulders, in his tightly held lance, the stiffness of his body.

A man awaiting his fate.

Sir Rupert was strong, good in a fight, but nowhere near Wallace’s caliber, and there was not a man, or a woman among those assembled who did not know it.

Even from this distance Wallace could tell Sir Rupert wore Wolfsbane armor, no doubt scavenged from one of the properties his father had stolen.

No doubt meant as an insult.

It would be his last.

When Wallace won, even the king would have to declare Wolfsbane honor restored.

And Sir Rupert would be dead.

Grim satisfaction rolled through him as his mount stamped impatiently, making the leather underneath his own chainmail squeak.

Of inferior quality, his armor was the best he’d been able to scrape together, and he knew from the looks from other nobles, and the whispers behind their hands, they discussed just how far he’d fallen.

Hate bubbled within him, and when he tightened his legs, his well-trained mount skittered about, letting him know.

He forced himself to relax. This would be over soon enough.

Their downfall had been deliberate, ruthless, and even Wallace had to admit — well thought out.

Whispers in the king’s ear, tales of treason, lies about taxes.

Never let it be said Wallace couldn’t learn from harsh lessons.

With his mother’s guidance, he’d learned to play the game. Intrigues, whispers, petitions, flattery. After his father’s death, he’d had much responsibility placed upon his shoulders.

Even as he’d scrambled to cobble together a home for his mother, sisters, and dependents, he’d had time to think.

Time to plan.

Time to play off the king’s vanity and avarice.

And, eventually, though he could not get to the father, he’d positioned the son exactly where he’d wanted him.

In front of the king.

In front of everyone.

With no way out.